Eggs
by Maverick87
Summary: Hot water is a good litmus test for how much you can take.


**Eggs**

My bed is quiet and a king size. I'm laying in it because I want to fool myself into being more tired. The late theory is that Sonic the Hedgehog isn't doing a good enough job being a hero. Maurice likes to sleep and lets me dream. I'm both the sleeper and the sand.

Yet the world takes saving and endorsement deals. I've gotta a commercial shoot at 3pm for pantyhose of all things. I need the money, the world needs me. It sounds like the perfect set-up for the perfect gig. Life comes easy. The only difference is that I'm saving the world in waves of motivation. Consumerism and speeches about never giving up; I never did against the toughest odds.

The only gist is that all the heroism is poisoning me. I went back to college and realized how stupid life is. Night classes. All the liquidations based on lives. It's sad and appropriate for the attitude I seem to have. The motions move through me and I move through the motions. A mutual friendship. The kicker or the puncher or the fighter floors me to the floor.

Yet there's a mother in the kitchen. She's pushing me towards some kind of everlasting. A marriage or mutuality I couldn't control. Do all men marry their mothers? If so, then this could be the millennial incest. Skirts, bad music, and nice ass and all that society coupling we help complete; the perfect man and woman whim.

For reference Amy and I got wonderful backsides.

The only reason for a mother is all the things you can't complete on your own, hot or not. If Amy is my mother then what left for me to complete? I fight robots. Not marriage. Hell, unless Robotnik is bionic or something, he's dead. I'm still here, until I die; that makes all this worrying seem romantic.

In actuality, my mother and father were Mobians, then robots/Robians, then only my father stayed a robot, which was so complicated that I couldn't like either of them. Trust me, I met them and the confusion raveled on. To take a metal hug and kiss on the cheek with a fleshy chaser felt like a bar experience except my father was the bar. And my Mom's name was Bernie. Weird name. I didn't stick around.

Any who, I needed a mother and Amy followed me everywhere. She had a good idealism for a lover (from later dates), so we dated and I found someone altruistic. We wrote a song about potatoes and patriots on our first date. It was based off a book dealing with the Mobian government and I had told her I liked hash browns. The stupidity made me a friend, but she sprouted a flower in my brain. Maybe a rose or tulip if I had to get poetic about the pseudo-botany inside my mind.

We saved up and snagged an overpriced house and bombed the interior with light burgundy and ivory. Our home became red wine that drunk you on the curtains. Vanilla ice cream to sweeten and cool the walls. And there was no hangover, brainfreezes or toothaches. Can you believe that? A wedding screaming from the insides of our house? The hues blend and drift into you like being knocked down the aisle? Yeah? Hard to say for me, but I'm bluer than the sea about it. Colors are pointless until you have a painting to keep them in anyway, and Amy doesn't like paintings, so she let me brush a cerulean streak on the mailbox but she still threw her bubblegum quill along mine; a pink and blue letter receptacle that let the entire planet know that we represented the perfect gender binary.

Me and the ivory ceiling, the burgundy fan spins from it. I sigh.

It's not that I don't want an ultimate confider in Amy, she's the right woman, maybe it's the slow down. It makes me wonder if marriage is how we settled into the norm.

But she's cooking breakfast and I don't eat breakfast and it's eggs, and I hate them unless they're soft scrambled like Bernie did when I was four, and what if Amy burns them, or gives me hot sauce where then I feel forced to use the spicy stuff and it gives me indigestion and then the commode and me are friends and I hate bowel movements because the timing is always wrong and all these recent lifestyle changes aren't me at all or are they just the pregnant scare I've heard Shadow talk about? I've become a firefly in a pretty bottle screaming for air! Like when all of us were kids in Knothole catching them and watching them fly! Am I the solitary bug collection?

My eyes blink quick creating a strobe effect. I'm an idiot.

The light switch on the ceiling fan clicks with the highest setting. A seagull lands on the balcony off the second story. We're close from the sea and he/she (who knows?) is taking a rest. The bird seems oceanic enough and my heart slows.

My fears are zombies and I'm a necrophiliac. All the same fears. The irony of being so fast yet closed down by the simple life. The seagull dives off. The food in the air ruminates up into my long, black nose.

"Sonic!" She yells in a childish howl, a puppy really.

Damndamndamn. The cuteness effect affects me. Both our eyes are green.

My blue furry feet thud one by one from the stairs to the blinding kitchen of sunlight. Minus the morning blur Amy's by the stove cooking away, wearing a pink robe I got her for free. She looks good, slower than I remember because of how she makes me stare.

She turns around with a saccharine spin. The robe's almost not one. It covers just right below the hips; furry hot pants? Sure. Why not?

"Hey Sonic! Good morning!"

"Hey." I mutter with no real reference to existence.

"Did you have sweet dreams?" she asks.

"Nah. They were horrible." I say with my set up in mind.

"Why not?"

"They didn't have you in them."

Amy dances a little, a shaky jig. She runs and pecks me on the cheek.

"You're sweet."

"I try to be." I say knowing how horrible my comment really was.

"I'm making eggs the way you like them."

"Soft scrambled?"

Amy steps back looking disappointed. "I thought you liked them over easy."

I walk for the coffee pot that's in the corner. There's a "L" shaped row of cabinets where below is the counter and the coffee pot's there. I put my hand next to the pot and check to see if it's on. It is and Amy's spoiled me all over again. I pour a cup in a mug that says "World's Greatest Hero".

"Sonic?"

I realize in my fog there's no answer for the eggs.

"Oh Ames, you know I like those too. Protein's protein."

She nods and rushes back over to the stove. The Teflon, no stick, frying pan is on the burner. Bought that when we moved in and she told me something about taking up the "culinary arts" and I've gotten breakfast ever since. Amy's got the smile Helen of Troy would dream of, if you study human history at all.

I sweep over to the love seat style kitchen table we got and sit down. Amy said it's perfect for our mornings and she's right. It's real intimate and smooth. Purple tablecloth with blue lace on one side, pink on the other, there's a centerpiece that's a glass swan. All stuff that's beautiful and understood long before now; this is not a bad thing. The silverware and napkins are already set and I almost want to believe Amy would've taken the time to fold the napkins into some sort of design.

"Do you want toast or cereal?"

"I'll take toast."

She puts four slices in the eight slot toaster we got from opening a bank account from the Bank of Mobius; two checking accounts, hers and his, a Roth IRA for retirement, and savings that takes ten percent out of whatever I make and whatever she makes. She does odd jobs. Amy's brilliant for having no post-education. I think she knows it too because I've offered to send her to whatever school she wants. Think of Mobius Tech, Station Square U, Forestdine all great schools, prestigious too and Amy says she's fine.

The eggs slide from the frying pan onto a plate. The toast pops up and is placed accordingly. Amy struts over and places the food in front me as if she was a waitress working for tips. Here's a tip, stop making me feel so horrible about loving you. She winks and walks off to grab the remaining toast, puts it on a little saucer, turns the burner off, cleans the pan. I take the salt and pepper next to the glass swan and dash my eggs. I take a bite and I forget how good eggs are cooked my way or not.

Amy comes back with cherry flavored jelly and butter. I spread my toast and put the two slices together to make a breakfast sandwich. The silence is almost too brilliant for the sundrenched kitchen we sit in. I try to make mental photographs as I chew and try not to smack because she hates that. Maybe I'll come back to the memory in years ahead. It's a good one.

"How is it?"

"It's great."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't it be? You're a great cook."

"Oh c'mon Sonic!" she giggles. "These are just eggs."

"Yeah but I couldn't cook anything except a chilidog and ants on a log."

"What's 'ants on a log'?"

"Peanut butter, raisins and celery sticks. The raisins stick to the peanut butter that's spread across the celery."

"I've never eaten that before."

"It's not bad at all."

"We'll have to make it after the next time I go to the store."

"Of course. If you've never had it, you'd probably really like it."

I grin and she gives me another celebrity smile. She sits and watches me eat. Normally I find this freaky, but it's too routine now.

"Are you going to eat anything?" I ask motioning my fork towards the saucer, halfway gnawing on an egg. "Do you want some toast? I won't eat it all."

"I ate some yogurt earlier with some granola in it," she blushes. "I'm fine Sonic you silly. Just eat it all. I know you want to."

"How long have you been up?"

"Since six."

"It's ten thirty!" I chuckle. "What were you doing?"

"I watched the news. Daytime talk show stuff."

"Anything interesting?"

"People don't seem to like love that much Sonic. It's as if people can't understand it."

"Complaints are bound to more complaints...I guess we wouldn't have much to talk about without the news huh?"

"That's true."

I finish the last bite of egg and start sopping the yolk with my toast. The mess looks like thick orange juice. The pepper from earlier are little bugs in a yellow sea.

"You know I got a shoot at three right?" I say finishing the last piece of toast.

"Yes. For pantyhose right?" she smirks.

"Yeah." I laugh. "Pretty horrible if you buy my pantyhose right?"

"We're going to get free ones for year. I'll have enough for the rest of my life and the afterlife."

"I'll be sure to bury you in pantyhose."

"At least my legs will look good."

"Mine too when that commercial's over."

Amy bursts out laughing. "Oh god Sonic, you'll beat me in everything! I thought had the pantyhose market cornered!"

"I thought Tails had you beat there."

"Oh you're horrible!"

"It happens," I grin.

She scoffs, takes my plate and washes it in the sink. I start staring at her ass and it's because I might be happy and that might be the hardest thing I've ever had to admit. Amy turns and looks back at me staring. Her gaze gets cute because she knows I'm looking. I'm luckily the only boyfriend she's ever had that got that privilege, well that and sleeping with her. Amy's real selective on the process of intercourse and with whom.

I sip my coffee and then I stop because Amy's smile isn't matching her eyes; a scary look.

"Sonic I…" she stops and seems to be recollecting herself.

"Yeah? What is it Ames?"

"I wrote a poem for you today and I wanted you to read it."

Amy turns her back to the sink and continues scrubbing the dishes. I sort of love how embarrassed she is about her creative writing. It's cuter than hell and I've told her a thousand times she's talented, but there's isn't a single publication that's made it pass the kitchen table.

"I'll read it, go get it for me."

She darts off to the study. It's adjacent and the only room Amy uses but I almost never touch. I hear the shuffling of papers which makes me think she hid somewhere in there as if I was going to look for it. Amy comes back with a piece of computer paper. The poem's handwritten and it's a calligraphy style. Every word almost immortal looking, but I haven't read it, and I hate to say that not all her stuff's perfect, but I take what I can get. She stands by my shoulder as I being to read.

_if a rose came to bloom  
__would i touch such a petal,  
__or live with the beauty?_

_one thousand flowers  
__not a reminder of recollection  
__or focus  
__the gift sits upon a glazed counter of indiscretion._

_for if i notice botany's climax,  
__and can't reach the state myself.  
__then what does it matter,_

_if a rose came to bloom?_

"It feels strange." I state trying to hold myself together.

"How so?"

"Who's the 'I'?"

"I am."

I feel like laughing now because this is insulting as hell in a place that's very sensitive.

"Then am I not pleasuring you enough?"

"Well when I mean—"

"When you mean 'you notice botany's climax and can't reach the state myself'? That's cold Ames, even to someone like me."

"That's not what it—"

"Look I'm all for artistic expression, don't get me wrong, but just watch yourself." I hand the paper back to her. "This is pretty good and I'd seriously think about getting this one published Ames, but don't tell me about it. I don't know if I'll ever be able to read this one again without thinking every time we're doing it if I'm getting you off."

She looks frustrated, but I don't really get why she'd show me this. I mean, seriously, what the hell?

"Sonic this isn—"

"Amy I'm going for a run and then take a shower and probably go hang out with Tails after the commercial shoot. I'll see you tomorrow."

She looks on the verge of tears, but I can't tell you what's stopping me right now from rage and yelling and cursing a storm. I could tell her off yet I always hold back because I know better than to waste time on something as trivial as a poem.

I get up and leave her there with the greatest thing she's ever written.

* * *

There's something about running most people hate. I think it has to be the pain you achieve. The burn inside your lungs feels like one hundred cigarettes. Your knees feel the buckling, the stress fractures you think you have. Worst of all is the breathing. Your breath becomes uncatchable like a roadrunner off a back road.

Of course I'm much faster than a roadrunner, so the analogy only works if you can't run the speed of sound.

Yet the end result is what you forget about. The moment you stop and the adrenaline hits. Everything in the world becomes easy. For minutes on the day you become more than you ever been.

I think the problem with me is that I'm really good at running. At least to the point where it doesn't hurt and doesn't tire me out anymore. All I do now is listen to music and watch people pass by in blurs and voices. My eyes fall into reactions that make the world slow down to almost nothing. The newspapers and televisions used to ask me how fighting Robotnik was so damn easy and well, it all really came down to how fast I was running.

I keep a runner's journal too. It holds all my times, and distances, and peculiar things I see while running. The funny part is have I city maps, a stopwatch, and a calculator to really judge my pace and speed. The pedometer I had exploded on my ankle and left burn marks for a couple of weeks. The pain wasn't even realized until I stopped and took a shower.

It's funny how if you don't focus on pain it doesn't hurt you at all.

Today's a sunny seventy-five degrees with eastern winds of ten miles per hour. It's around eleven so the trolleys will be out, there are no big events in the main square, no parades to have to stop and watch.

Today will be a great time to run.

My breath finds a deep reserve.

And I'm off.

* * *

Day 93 Date 4/19/2752

Time: One hour

Distance: two hundred miles

Pace: 3.34 miles a minute.

Notes:

A slower run for endurance. My lungs have to be in control. Legs were fine, no joint pain there and I think I'm over the runner's knee I was getting a couple of weeks ago.

I passed a child leaving a toy store. Her mother was dragging her out and she was screaming something fierce. It's funny how horrible kids are and how adults are just the same. We don't want to give up what we want.

Another couple kissed while busses passed. It looked like all the noise in the world couldn't stop their love. It made me think about Amy.

The skyscrapers looked nice.

I saw my face in a market stall tabloid. Apparently I'm going to kill myself and Amy's really the reason why. Not really funny this time considering the circumstances.

Nothing else for now. Run on the beach in a couple of days! It's better there and there aren't any distractions.

* * *

The faucet rains down on me. The fur I do have soaks it in. My quills ironically spew water all over the place, like giant reflecting pads or shields for water. We had to get a specialized shower curtain that almost airlocks the water inside, but the steam stays in which lets my sinuses clear out.

I take the soap and scrub myself over. I haven't seen Amy and usually she's in our room or something. I guess she's out with Rouge or Cream going shopping. Maybe she's out with Tails. He didn't return my call. They love to have little get-togethers usually involving tea and watercress sandwiches, so Tails probably picked Amy over me, no big deal.

I almost want a watercress sandwich. Couldn't tell you why. Well actually they're delicious and there's something ridiculous about them as if I'd have to wear a monocle and a top hat to eat one. Be stuffy and talk in a snobby way. I'm sort of glad this hasn't happened yet. I told Tails to kick my ass metaphorically if I ever did become a rich bastard.

My hand turns the water up hotter. Scalding. I grit my teeth for a second because the pain feels good. Hot water is a good litmus test for how much you can take.

* * *

There are three cameras on me. One in front, one to the left, and one to the right. They told me the crane camera is not being used. I've already put the pantyhose on and I'm standing next to a bookcase full of high brow novels, short story anthologies, and smut magazines because apparently Sonic is a man of expansive taste. My fur and quills are lightened with makeup because dark blue looks horrible on a studio camera.

"Hey Sonic," a rabbit who's also floor director walks over to me.

"Yeah?"

"I'll give you the cue when to look into the camera."

"Okay."

We've run through the commercial twice with dry runs. I am the smolder of pantyhose wearing men. The director told me I've got a longing in my eyes that could make anything seem believable. This is a bonus because there was no audition, they wanted me for obvious reasons, and if any acting talent came aboard that's just a huge plus.

There's no teleprompter either. My job is to stand and look pretty which if you count how many times I've posed for a paper after defeating Robotnik, is the easiest thing I've ever done. Of course none of this is for the looks or fame, I like helping people, even if that means telling them what pantyhose they should buy.

The floor director gives me the cue and I become Sonic the silent movie actor.

I stare into camera two.

I notice I can see myself distorted in the lens, upside down where the teleprompter would be if I had any words to say.

My mind cradles the thought that I can give complete strangers what they want, but not Amy. I can make consumers but I cannot be consumed. She doesn't want me. She wants the clout and the parties and the stops on the street. Aren't you Sonic's wife? How's he in the sack? Oh god would they even ask that question? How am I in bed? Why does that seem so important? Is sex what life is…and if I can't perform sex I can't be considered alive? No Sonic that's a horrible thought. Strangers aren't going to ask stuff like that are they? I hope we don't have to reshoot because of this.

The floor director gives me the cue and the commercial is over.

Everyone starts talking. The camera directors start making jokes. A loud roar of clapping is coming from the director's room. I guess the everything is brilliant. Production assistants start cleaning the set. The cameras are being moved back to the walls where the cables are inserted.

For the first time I notice how hot and bright the lights are, an artificial sun.

The rabbit rushes over to me.

"Great job Sonic. You're natural at this! Why haven't you ever taking up acting before?"

I feel like telling him I've been an actor my whole life and I just found out good of an actor my wife is.

"I don't know. I mean I never gave it much thought."

"You should. You were breathtaking and you were wearing pantyhose for god's sake!"

The rabbit gives a laugh that doesn't sound like his own. Here's another actor to the stage, but he's friendly and that's something more than the last commercial I did where the floor director was a complete ass.

"Yeah," I laugh with him. "I could win some awards or something to put me into god status right? I mean think fame on steroids."

He laughs again and it's another different laugh.

"You know I wanted to piss myself silly doing this whole shoot with you. I mean, you know, for obvious reasons."

There it is. Too obvious. He's a huge fan and he's nervously enveloped by my fame. I really wish people would stop caring about how much of a socialite I am.

"Why is that?" I ask almost annoyed about waiting to hear about where he saw me on television before, to be in front of a hero is too much for this guy.

"You, uh," He shakes his head for a second as if in disbelief about something he's never seen before or said before. "You saved my family's life when I was eleven."

And now I feel like an asshole. An asshole in pantyhose.

"When was that?" I ask knowing that he could be a liar. A horrible thought, but people really know how to get what they want and I've had people lie to me about when their little town was attacked and I came in and saved the day.

"Green Hill Zone back in '39. You spin dashed through a cage and let us all go free."

I want to tell him I remember 39, but I saved a lot of people and there've been a lot of cages and freedoms I was apart of.

"I don't remember that, but I'm sure it meant something to you. To tell me face to face..."

The rabbit shrugs my doubt off as if he didn't even hear it.

"You carried my father Johnny Lightfoot to safety. He had two broken legs, was crushed by a Swatbot and was literally dragged into a cage screaming and cussing a storm until you brought him home."

Time has now stopped and the record button is being pressed. The rabbit is reliving the moment and I can't imagine the pain. I realize I've never realized it. All those people I saved. But I can relive it too and I can't believe I forgot. Johnny Lightfoot was more than a pair of broken legs when I pulled him out of that cage. A freedom fighter. The doctor told me he had internal bleeding, broken ribs, a moon like cut under his left eye. I don't think his son knew that. It's amazing how much a memory can remain. I remember telling him that he was a hero for trying to fight, for trying to help. And Johnny said I was the hero but I didn't take a scratch.

"What's he been up to?" I ask warmly. "I'd like to see him,"

The rabbit stops his dreaming and his eyes widen as if the question was embarrassing, unspeakable. "Uh, ha…My father died last year."

I suddenly remember Johnny's face and the look in his eyes. That look that said I love you for saving me but that fear for his children. Are my kids okay? His eyes were screaming. My mind is flashing those eyes. The combination of regret and happiness.

The son has the same look right now.

"I'm so sorr—"

"It was a traffic accident," the rabbit rubs his ears. "Some guy ran a red light and t-boned him at eighty miles an hour. The other driver died too though, so there's some sort of poetic justice in that."

A man who gave his life for freedom and love and the world, put his life on the line for nothing more than his family and others, and almost dies doing it. And he's taken in a pedestrian traffic accident. Someone dies because you were late to work, wanted to get home, felt like breaking the law.

I feel like crying and hating the world I've protected.

"I'm so sorry…"

The rabbit steps out of his trance and kind puts his head down for a second. Maybe's he praying or wishing or something, I can't tell you. He looks up again with eager eyes.

"Sonic I'm sorry! Hell where are my manners? My name's Jake. My name's Jake Lightfoot."

"Jake if there's ever anything—"

He brushes off the request as if I offered to buy him a drink. "I don't need anything. Meeting you was more than enough. You gave me a father for twelve years. You saved me too you know? I can't do anything else but say thank you Sonic. Thank you for giving me some sort of life to live, my family's life too, it's debt I could never repay you, but I can at least thank you for it."

I don't know what to say. I don't know what to say to that! What the hell do you say?

The rabbit walks up and pats me on the shoulder. "Dad said you were the one reason why everyone in this world should believe in heroes."

* * *

I'm now walking home. I'm not running, no no no no, I'm walking this one out, slow and steady and wanting to cry.

What have I become?

The buildings pass again and the skyscrapers aren't the same majestic works they were before. They are metal, cold, and unforgiving like the cages. I think of Amy again and it's closer to dusk. She's probably alone and pissed at me. She deserves to be. It was a poem, a stupid poem that she wanted me to see.

I see another rabbit cross the street.

I think of Johnny again and I want to scream

My pace picks up and I'm running towards the outskirts of town. Where the house is, where Amy, my Amy's going to be she's going to be fine and very much alive. I'm going to tell her I'm sorry and if she'll ever forgive the unbelievable bastard I've been.

How can she even love me at all?

* * *

I try to open my front door but it's locked so I get the house key out. The lights aren't on.

The door swings wide but I close it with a delicate touch. I flip light switches, illuminating the house in staged precision. I feel like saying her name, but I don't even have the energy to say that.

Running here tired me out and I don't know why.

The kitchen lights flash on and there's Amy at the same table where we ate breakfast earlier. She's in a pink jumpsuit, her head hidden in her arms, there's mascara tears coming from her eyes, a bottle of vodka beside her, a quarter empty, a shot glass too. Amy never drinks and when she does she's never alone. I walk over to the other chair and pull it beside her and sit down. Again words become meaningless and I just put my hand on the back of her neck and rub in circular motions the way she likes.

Amy stares with the look I had to have had walking home. "Sonic I'm s-s-s-so sorry! I didn't mean t—"

I put her head into my chest and squeeze tight. She starts wailing and I swallow every tear.

"Amy it was just a poem. It was just a good poem. You deserve much better than me."

"It was mor-more than a poem."

"Ames it was just a poem."

She lets go of me and pulls something out of her pocket. It's the stick with the two blues lines on it and oh damn. I grab her again and hold her breathless. I don't think she knows the kind of forgiving mood I'm in. She keeps crying.

"Amy…oh Amy…it'll be fine. We'll be fine. We'll be good parents."

"No we won't…we won't," she sobs.

I think of Johnny and what he gave for his family. I'll try at least be half the father he is. I can be a father and do the job. I know I can.

I am going to be a father.

The sentence still hasn't hit me yet. This is the opposite shock of what death is.

She pushes me away again. This time she rushes off to the bathroom. I hear her throw up like a dying chicken. She sounds awful, looks awful and she thinks I'm going to hate her for this. And earlier today I might've of. I would have told her to end this. That my life had no room for children, but it's strange. It does now. I have all the room in the world.

Amy comes back into the room in a angry strut and slams two empty medicine bottles on the table. One is for Mifepristone**. **One is for Misoprostol.

"What are these? What's going on? What's wrong Ames?"

She just stares on like I'm missing something here.

"Amy, we're going to be fine. We can be great parents. I mean you shouldn't be drinking that's bad for the baby right? How long have you been expecting? I guess that doesn't matter does it? We're going to be parents Ames! Can't you believe that?"

She screams. A groan that feels and slaps me across the face. I almost fall out of the chair onto the tile floor we put in to replace the linoleum that was here.

Okay go ahead and close off part of the world I had room for.

"What the hell is wrong with you! Seriously what the hell is wrong Amy! Say something! Anything! What's got you so upset?"

"There is no baby!" she screeches in the highest pitch I've ever heard her voice take. "I took the pill. I got an abortion Sonic. We will not be parents. We will live our lives as if nothing ever happened. Nothing ever happened!"

She falls to the floor and starts sobbing again.

"Thereisnobaby!" she keeps repeating.

And the now all that room I had is used up but not because there's isn't going to be a baby. I can share that burden with her, but our own? The problem is bigger than that.

It's me.

"You aborted a baby on how you thought I would react?"

"I t-t-t-t-thought you'd leave me! I didn't want to lose you!"

I can't hear the words. I walk towards our room up the staircase and pull the suitcase out from under the bed. I rip the closet open and start pulling out clothes I've never wear. Amy runs in behind me.

"Sonic I didn't mean to hurt you or us! I just wanted us to be happy!"

Now my eyes are tearing up like hers. I turn to her and I hope she can tell by the look on my face that I actually love her so damn much.

"If you are so scared of me that you would abort a baby to curve my reactions…what the hell does that say of me Ames? What am I then? What kind of person does that make me?"

Amy grabs my hand and pulls me toward her. She holds me tight enough to feel my ribs move upward.

"Sonic just stay here! I love you! I really love you. Please stay!"

I drop the button up shirt I was holding. It falls to the floor like the sound of a bird in flight. My mind is cracking.

"Amy…I feel like we're monsters."

She sobs even louder.

And I feel my throat quivering along, the muscles are constricting and

oh god damn it.

* * *

The diner is open late, it's currently two am. There's a duck who's cooking away with a peppered apron of grease and sweat. He finally comes over to where I am. The tiles are black and white. There are no waitresses, only the cook serving and preparing another guy's order. But now he'll get mine.

"Whataya have sir?"

"Coffee with two creams and two sugars," the duck nods at me. "And an order of eggs soft scrambled."

"Coming right up! Give me a minute though! I gotta finish the other's guy's hash browns."

I remember that damn song we wrote.

"Oh that's fine take your time."

The coffee appears without me knowing. The ingredients are put in with no care. Sugar and cream stain the counter with nothing more than my mind looking forward at the puddles and the grainy feeling as my hands grind the sugar in my hands. I'm trying to make a shape out of the puddle. An animal, a country from a map, a face; a past time.

I wonder if I can go find Johnny Lightfoot's grave or if I can even make it there without walking out in front of a truck.

The other diner patron, a chameleon, is eating with all the ketchup in the place. Every squirt of the bottle sounds like a fart and that used to make me laugh, but I feel disgusted at just about any memory I've ever had. The lizard smacks his food with the kind of popping that should be annoying the hell out of me. But it's not. And that phrase just doesn't work does it? You can't take the hell out of anything. Not through fear or anger or love or hate or saving a man who should've died or never knowing a baby who could've been the greatest or the worst thing that ever happened to me and I'd take anything, but if that were true I should've at least loved my fatherhood for the only two weeks I had it.

The minute hand on the clock moves a little further.

The poem was about the baby wasn't it? Her and the baby, and the decision to kill it. I don't know hard that was, but to show it to me? I was supposed to understand that? Or was that the way of breaking news gently? It wouldn't be news if it was gentle. To give me a poem about abortion and like the professor I am, I gave the wrong critique and now what goes on? Where's all the heroism I had? How could she write down that kind of pain? It's…it's inhumane and we're not humans, we're animals who act like humans so does that make it correct?

The ceiling fans come on. The breeze swirls my quills and fur. It's a good feeling. I got one good feeling. At least the climate is nice. I'm not cold or hot or anything.

"Oh wow! Holy hell!" the cook booms his voice across the diner. The chameleon looks at me. I look at him. He swallows his hash browns and stops staring at me.

The duck rushes out and holds the frying pan in front of the lizard.

"Can you believe that? Isn't that nuts?"

The chameleon nods with the normalcy that comes when you're not that impressed.

The cook heads over to me.

"I was making your eggs! Look at this!"

I stare into the pan there's three yolks, they're small but there.

"What's the point? I don't get it."

"It was a triple yolker! Three eggs came from one! Isn't that amazing? I've never seen that before in my life and I've owned this diner for almost a decade now. Isn't that the craziest thing you ever saw? It's like a little family of eggs!"

I stare into pan once again and just laugh a little. The everything's falling apart laugh. You know the one. Go ahead and take back the good feeling now. It's gone.

"Will you take one of those eggs out though? I'm not that hungry."

"But you look like you haven't eaten in weeks."

"Just give me two eggs, I'm trying to stay in some sort of decent shape you know?"

"Oh I getcha sir! I used to be as thin as you were once. I'd kill for the kind of dietary control you got."

"Wouldn't we all."

"Do you work out or something?" he asks.

I laugh again and it feels outside me a little.

"No. I don't work out at all."

* * *

_-Maverick87-2011_


End file.
